


Kodak Moment

by meaninglessblah



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Family Fluff, Look they're all one big happy family okay?, Photographs, Short & Sweet, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 12:47:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19377004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: Jason finds a photograph of himself as Robin in one of his safehouses, and assumes the worst. Then he remembers he has siblings whose idea of a practical joke includes leaving him sentimental gifts.





	Kodak Moment

Tim’s six hours overdue for a desperately-needed nap, and is running on the last dregs of his ninth shot of espresso in forty-eight hours. It’s a small miracle he’s even made it back to the Penthouse without micro-napping halfway through a grapple. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s had to scrape himself off the pavement after an unplanned ten foot fall. 

He shucks his hood and gloves as he approaches the desk for one last skim of Gotham’s rolling list of incoming police reports, nudging the mouse over to bask in the glow of the blue screen. 

Tim hears the click seconds before he feels the muzzle burrowing into the hair at the base of his skull. He tenses instinctively, stiffening up. 

“This is going to be your first _and final_ warning,” Jason says from behind him, and Tim lets out a shaky exhale. 

“Okay,” Tim says, and nods very minutely. Makes sure he keeps his palms flat on the desk and doesn’t make any suggestions at moving. “Okay, I’m listening. What did I do this time?” 

“You really need me to spell it out for you, replacement?” Jason sneers, and Tim can practically feel him baring teeth. The muscles in his neck coil tighter. “You need me to ask you, out loud, what you did?” 

He keeps his voice sardonically even. “Shoot,” he says, deadpan. 

For a second, he thinks Jason might do just that. The gun skirts up the curve of Tim’s scalp an inch, baring down enough to have him hunching his shoulders as he skirts forward until he’s flush against the desk. “You honestly don’t know?” he sneers, but there’s a touch of hesitation there. 

“Not sure,” Time replies. “What am I not knowing about?” 

“You don’t know about the photo,” Jason presses, and Tim blinks. 

“Which photo?” 

“Replacement, I will _shoot_ you.” 

“I mean it, which photo are we talking about? I take a lot of them.” 

Jason growls low in his throat. “Are you all take, or is there some give in there?” 

Tim’s reeling just a bit. Maybe it’s the adrenaline. “I’m usually all for the cryptic mind games, but I’m not feeling my best tonight. Can we cut to the bit where you tell me why you’re bailing me up? Or can we do this again tomorrow when I’ve got a few hours of sleep under me?” 

The gun disappears, and Tim almost makes the mistake of turning around before it nudges against the corner of his jaw in warning. Tim returns his eyes to the desk and heaves a clipped sigh. 

“Okay, what’s the situation here?” he tries again. 

“You really don’t know,” Jason says, but it sounds half-statement and less question. 

“You’ve lost me,” Tim admits. 

There’s a few beats of perfect silence, and Tim wonders if maybe Jason’s actually departed. “You took photos of me as Robin, right?” he says finally, stiffly. 

Not how Tim expected his evening to be progressing. He’s always one for a sentimental jaunt down memory lane, but he doesn’t think Jason’s a good skipping partner. “I used to, yeah,” Tim admits with a frown, “when I was eight.” 

“You give any of those out?” Jason demands a little more firmly, the anger rising in his tone again. 

“Sure,” Tim admits, confused. “Within the family.” 

“ _Who_ within the family, replacement?” 

“Everyone?” Tim says. 

The gun makes a reappearance, over-eager for its encore. Tim withers into the desk, hunching his shoulders up as if he can block the inevitable bullet. “Don’t jerk me around, replacement. Who’s everyone?” 

“B,” Tim rattles off, wracking his brain. “Alfred. The D’s. Maybe a few to the girls.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Jason snarls, and flicks on the safety, holstering the gun. Tim lets some of the tension wash off with his next exhale. “Does no one appreciate privacy in this family?” 

“Not between us, not really.” 

“Well, I’m putting my foot down. You keep your stalker shit to yourself-” 

“I was _eight_.” 

“-or I’ll burn down all your hidey holes, replacement. Stop giving people my photos. If I see one more, I’m destroying the lot, you hear me? Every file and hard drive. And you won’t get the courtesy warning. Trust me on that.” 

“I do,” Tim assures him. “I won’t give them out. I haven’t for years, anyway.” 

“Keep it that way,” Jason snarls. 

Tim hears the creak of a misplaced boot on an old floorboard, and then he’s alone again. He slumps in a boneless heap into his desk chair and leans his head back as he waits for his heart to settle. 

“What the hell was that about?” he asks the silence. 

 

* * *

  


Dick’s halfway across a rooftop, pointed for home and daydreaming about his bed, when the tripwire takes out his ankle. He shifts his weight through the shock, managing to take most of the momentum into a shoulder roll that leaves him on his knees on the coarse concrete. Dick sits back and brings his feet around so he can unwind the cable, frowning. It’s good quality, sturdy and strong, and its weight is familiar in his hands. He realises why when its owner steps down off a grapnel wire, slowing their descent as they approach. 

“Hood,” Dick greets, because they’re in costume and he’s known the rules longer than any of them. He wraps up the cable and offers it to the man. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?” 

Jason doesn’t take the cable. Dick can feel his eyes piercing him through the helmet, but he hates how blank that metal facade is. He bounces off others’ expressions and movements; being cut off from them tends to make him overcompensate. 

“A phone call wouldn’t have sufficed?” he teases, and when Jason doesn’t move he rolls up onto his feet, the cable still in-hand. “I don’t remember messing with any of your cases lately. What’d I do this time?” 

“You been in Bludhaven all week?” Jason asks instead of answering that, and Dick sighs. 

“Mostly, why? Something go down in Gotham that I should know about?” He offers up the cable again, and Jason hesitates, before taking it. 

“How many of my safehouses do you know about?” 

Dick frowns. “A few,” he says honestly. “Why? Is this a case? What’s happened? Do you need help with something?” 

“How many?” Jason presses. 

“Three,” Dick replies. 

He can tell by the tightness in Jason’s neck and jaw that he’s displeased with that answer, but it’s not the one he was looking for. Dick can’t tell if that’s a good thing. 

“You talked to Tim lately?” 

Dick’s lips twist in disapproval at the name said aloud. “Sure, over comms. Haven’t seen him in person since Tuesday. Did something happen to him?” 

Jason ignores that too. “How many…” He hesitates, and Dick watches his whole posture tense before he continues in a rush, “How many photos of me do you have?” 

Dick blinks. The answer is an awful lot. There’s a whole shoebox of them under his bed in his Bludhaven apartment, banded together with elastic. Hundreds of his favourite polaroids, thousands of smiling faces of his makeshift family beaming back at him from the film. He opens his mouth to answer, but Jason interjects before he can get the words out. 

“How many of me as Robin?” he clarifies, and Dick arches a brow. 

“A few,” he admits. “Not many, but more than a handful.” 

He waits for Jason to swallow this information down, curious and confused by the other man’s agitation. It’s translating back through him, making him coil preemptively. 

“You lose any of those recently?” Jason says bluntly, pointedly, but Dick can’t fathom what direction they’re headed in. 

“Not that I know of,” Dick answers. 

Jason grunts in acknowledgement, chewing something over in his mind as he hooks the loop of tripwire on his belt. “Stay out of trouble, Nightwing,” he advises, and pulls his grapple, jogging for the nearest precipice. 

Dick watches him swing into the churn of the Bludhaven nightlife, leaving him basking in the quiet solitude of his lone rooftop. Jason’s all caught up in his own thoughts, and it shows in every movement of his body, drawing his features into a tight pinch. He can’t put his finger on what could have him so unsettled, but Dick’s sure that it’ll trickle down the grapevine to him eventually.  

So he shakes his head and mutters, “Damned if I know,” under his breath. Then he takes off at a sprint for the siren screaming two blocks over. 

 

* * *

  


It’s nearly impossible to sneak up on Damian. 

He’s spent a short lifetime watching his back, of fine-tuning his body to make himself aware of the smallest, most minute movement. His training under his mother had bred him into the shadows, and his tutelage under his father had honed that familiarity until now he all but breathes tenebrosity, so there’s very little that can surprise him nowadays. 

Which is probably why Todd doesn’t try to ambush him. At least, not in the traditional sense. Damian can’t say he’s totally unfazed when he opens the front door to his safehouse to find the man slouched against the back of his sofa, feet crossed at the ankles and eyes on the timber floorboards. He looks like he’s trying to glean an answer to the universe from the grain. 

“Damian,” he murmurs without inflection, inclining his head in a stiff greeting. 

Damian closes the door behind him, and doesn’t bother setting the deadbolt. “Todd,” he responds, and brushes through into the kitchen to dump the groceries on the benchtop. 

Todd doesn’t move for an age, just watches Damian as he bustles about sorting cans into perfect order by best before date and replenishing Dick’s cereal with a fresh box. The safehouse is technically in Dick’s name, because Damian’s still only fifteen and not qualified to put his name to a lease. At least not legally. 

He doesn’t mind; he likes Dick’s company, likes this pokey little apartment. A small niche of homeliness away from the imposing opulence of the manor. Damian’s come to appreciate why Dick chose a humble abode when he first settled in Bludhaven. 

“Tea?” Damian asks, because that’s what Alfred had always used as a conversation starter, and Damian’s gotten a lot better at ensuring people are comfortable around him since he took up the Robin mantle. The butler’s hospitality was a skill like any other Damian had acquired, and he approached it with the same discipline as he had his myriad of other tuition. 

“Sure,” Todd allows, and doesn’t shift. “What are you making?” 

“Koshary,” Damian replies, and sets two tumblers on the laminate. “Do you take sugar? Or do you prefer it bitter? Traditionally, we serve with mint.” Then he pauses. “Unless you’d prefer butter tea?” 

He’s trying to remember if they have any left of the batch he made on Tuesday (Dick just drinks so damn much of it), when Todd shakes his head. “I don’t take sugar. Definitely prefer it bitter.” 

Damian nods in acknowledgement, and retrieves the terracotta jar from the pantry, soothing himself with the motions of preparing the brew. He’s not usually one to be fazed by silence, but there’s something about Todd’s ambiguity that has him on edge. And he’s loathe to betray Alfred’s careful tuition, but Damian just can’t stand the quietude. 

“Did you have a matter you wanted to discuss?” 

“Not sure,” Todd replies lightly, and no manner of Alfred’s training has given him a response for that. Turns out he doesn’t need to reply, because Todd straightens and approaches the counter, arms crossed over his chest. 

Damian gives him a quick visual sweep, locating the array of tools on his person and analysing the curve of his posture to determine if its a threat. But Todd’s wrapped up in his own head again, so Damian focuses on steeping the tea and keeps one stray thought on the kitchen knife block behind him. 

“You seem pretty innocuous,” Todd says, apropos of nothing, and Damian lets his brows rise, but says nothing. Not the first word he would have chosen, but he’s sure Todd’s arriving at a point. “But I wouldn’t put it past you to partake in pranks.” 

Ah, yes, he’s gotten quite adept at those. They’re like cases really; Damian enjoys the necessary planning, the lighthearted deception and then the amicable retribution that follows. Dick’s particularly fond of pranking him, has even managed to catch him off-guard a few times. It’s a running competition they have, an outlet for their accumulating daily stresses. 

But Damian has never, to his knowledge, engaged in the back-and-forth of practical jokes with Jason Todd. He says as much to the man across the counter from him. 

Todd shrugs. “Thought I’d check. I’m working down the list.” 

“Glad I could assist,” Damian says hesitantly, and reaches across to the far side of the kitchen, where several small pots sit dying on the windowsill. Only the plague of mint remains now, having succeeded in its hostile takeover of the small herb garden Damian had been meticulously cultivating and had inevitably grown to neglect under the weight of his vigilante commitments. 

He picks two leaves apiece, and drops them into each of the glasses, watching them settle on the surface of the ochre liquid. Then he slides the saucer across to Todd, who lifts the tumbler and inhales the steam appreciatively. 

It’s customary to finish at least one glass before engaging in discussions, but this doesn’t feel like a negotiation to Damian, and he can’t bring himself to relax enough in Todd’s presence to fully appreciate the tea. So he clears his throat softly, like Dick sometimes does before delivering particularly sensitive news, and says, “Is something bothering you?” 

Todd looks up at him, then, blue eyes sharp and piercing, and against his better judgement, Damian swallows under their weight. He doesn’t particularly want to engage in a pseudo-therapy session with Todd, nor Todd with him, he suspects. But he’s unsure how else to get the conversation progressing. 

“You’re a lot more sentimental than I thought you’d be,” Todd cuts in. It sounds like an accusation. 

Damian’s mind flickers to his herb garden, and his jars of tea, and the collection of paintbrushes tucked into his writer’s desk in his bedroom. Wonders if Todd took the time to snoop around before setting up camp on his sofa. “Yes,” is all he says. 

Todd nods in acknowledgement. “Not one for photos though, are you?” 

Damian frowns, properly and genuinely this time. “I have some photographs,” he corrects slowly, aware that there’s a landmine here, but unsure where the pressure point is. “Grayson insists that I start a collection.” 

He has exactly twelve photographs, and fifteen polaroids. Tim had gifted him an old camera after he’d expressed an interest in the man’s quiet passion for photography, and Damian had dedicated all fifteen to landscape shots of Gotham. The other twelve had been gifts from Dick and Steph, and one particularly cherished one from Cass, with the pair of them frozen in the midst of engulfing a shared stick of cotton candy. 

“Any of me?” Todd says, and there’s a hint of amusement there, as if he already suspects the answer. 

Damian shifts his weight and turns the tumbler in its saucer, the movement idle and secondary. “I have two photos with you,” Damian allows quietly. “One is a profile shot, and the other is from last Christmas.” 

Todd hums at that, so Damian thinks perhaps he’s avoided a reprimand somehow. The saucer scrapes loudly against the laminate when Todd pushes it back towards him, empty. 

“Thanks for the tea, Shorty,” he provides, and straightens, headed for the front door. It’s unbelievably civil, and Damian stares in dumb astonishment as he turns the handle and looks back. “And for clearing your record. I’ll see you around.” 

Damian stares at the closed door until his tea goes lukewarm and the mint has started to sink. Then he frowns and leans against the counter and asks aloud, “Yir iim behrmn bəədv?” 

 

* * *

  


It had started with one framed photograph. 

Jason had stumbled home in the early hours of the mid-August morning, dreaming of collapsing onto his mattress and carving out some much-needed rest before the sun rose to stoke the noxious climate of Gotham. He’d been halfway to yanking his shirt off and staggering past the kitchen counter when he’d stopped. Paused and turned, as if on a pedestal, to lower his gaze to the innocuous wooden-framed image on its surface. 

It had taken him a spare moment to realise that the gold-red-and-green-clad figure grinning up from its depths was him, super-imposed against the dark charcoal of the batsuit. It must have been an early-days photo, because his hair is still awkwardly dyed in places, and the unruly locks have been meticulously gelled into Dick’s signature split. There’s still a few wayward, rebellious strands that have come free of the updo, but Jason can’t mistake the toothy grin or the not-quite-slim stature. 

He’s frozen for another breathless minute before he lunges forward and snatches it up, thumbs pressed to the glass in astonishment and blooming trepidation. 

Man, but Bruce looks so _young_. There’s the very barest five o’clock shadow painting that chiselled jaw beneath the cowl, marring the usually pristine complexion. It makes him look more human. The smile goes a long way towards furthering the image, too. 

Jason wonders if maybe this photo is a one-of-a-kind. He’s seen millions of snapshots of Bruce’s perfect playboy smile radiating up from Gotham’s slew of tabloids and newspapers, since he was old enough to stuff their pages into his shoes. But he knows there’s scarce few photos of Bruce Wayne’s genuine, soft grin, the one he only lets out on family occasions and during Jason’s early patrol days. He certainly hasn’t got to see it more than once or twice since he hauled himself out of the Pit, and that probably says more about Jason than it does about Bruce. 

But seeing Batman, _the Batman_ , grinning up at him with Bruce ‘Father of the Year’ Wayne’s smile is a little jarring. Jason can’t quite reconcile the two. It’s just so rare to see him in a moment of human weakness, especially captured in eternally 4x6 glory. It’s personal, and intimate, and undoubtedly intended for him. 

It freaks Jason the fuck out. 

Because it’s here, in his apartment, in _Jason Todd_ , unexceptional nobody’s apartment. And even if someone, somewhere, had managed to sew that torn tapestry together and linked Jason Todd to Robin, this is _Red Hood’s_ home turf. It makes this an extraordinarily threatening gesture. It speaks leagues of an intimacy Jason’s not privy to. 

He can’t even begin to suspect who the fuck has left him this fucked up little gift, so perfectly staged for him to find the instant he’d come home off patrol. It certainly hadn’t been there when he’d stepped out four hours ago. Which means someone has absolutely been monitoring his movements, and knew he’d be here, tonight, right now, to receive their little gift. 

Jason slams the photograph back down on the counter, suddenly conscious of the fact that it could be poisoned, or dosed, or tampered with, or any number of malicious interferences to ensure his quick and uneventful demise. He’s still got his gloves on, which is his only saving grace, but Jason still leaps back against the unrelenting edge of the dining table to put some distance between himself and the frame, as if an explosion can’t bridge the five foot distance between them. Then he bolts for the bedroom, ripping a spare duffel from the stand-up wardrobe. 

He’s halfway to his secondary safehouse in the Bowery (taking the long, scenic and especially-confusing-for-any-potential-tails route) when he realises it may be a double bluff. Maybe it _is_ completely innocent, and just designed to put him on edge so he’s less prepared for when the actual blow lands. 

Maybe it’s just one of his meddling pseudo-siblings playing a practical joke on Jason wound-tighter-than-a-jack-in-the-box Todd. 

Jason staggers to a halt with one leg hooked around the railing on a fire escape, gloves clenched tight on the black metal as his stomach sinks somewhere down to his toes and lodges there. Because _maybe_ , just maybe, the photograph is a genuine, heartfelt gift from one of Jason’s concerned siblings. 

The cage of his chest tightens under the recognition that that wasn’t Jason’s first assumption. Wasn’t even his second or third, and fuck, when did he become so damn jaded that he’d assume someone was trying to murder him before assuming someone cares about him enough to leave him a gift? 

Probably around the same time someone actually murdered him because he assumed someone cared about him, and wrapped him up as a nice little pinata gift. 

Same colours too, Jason thinks bitterly, and descends the fire escape. He doesn’t go back to the framed photograph, but it weighs on his mind for the next week all the same. Hooks itself into the back of his grey matter and jostles up behind his subconscious until he’d made himself dizzy with how many circles he’s run around an explanation. 

It’s not until he discovers the second and third photographs - both in separate, _other_ safehouses - that Jason twigs onto the fact that maybe this is actually one of his siblings. Then there’s a fourth and a fifth, all of him at varying ages of Robinhood (and a handful of him from recent family gatherings, white streak stark against his siblings’ monotonously dark hair) and Jason decides that he’s not actually onboard with receiving spontaneous sentimental gifts from his family. Especially not when they keep popping up in his goddamn _private_ safehouses. 

It’s not until the twelfth shows up in his apartment near Tricorner with a tupperware container of Alfred’s lasagne next to it that Jason puts his foot down and decides that it’s time to pay whichever sibling is fucking with him an impromtu visit. Because there’s a beaming shot of a twelve-year-old Jason kneeling high on a stool to pad out cookie dough under Alfred’s soft-eyed instruction, perched on his bedside table, and Jason can’t breathe steadily for a whole fifteen minutes after he finds it. 

So he loads his favourite Beretta with a fresh full clip, and hauls himself out the window to head towards the penthouse apartment up on Fifth. 

 

* * *

  


It’s movie night at the Manor, and Dick’s contemplating the merit of his third bowl of microwaved popcorn while Tim unloads his case of old photographs across the carpet, shuffling out any that are void of Jason’s signature grin. He’s spared from an immediate decision when their youngest arrives in Robin duds, shucking the sword and domino as he steps into the living room. 

Dick leans over the back cushions and waves a welcoming hand at Damian as he skirts the sofa. “How many?” he asks in greeting, and Damian shows his count on his fingers. 

“Three,” he answers, and tucks himself into the cushions at Dick’s side. He watches Tim silently shuffling through polaroids for a minute, before asking, “What’s your score, Drake?” 

“Eight,” Tim replies without looking up, and Dick feels Damian’s shoulders rise in a huff of chagrin beside him. Tim must hear it, because he looks up with an easy smile. “Don’t feel bad about it. I’ve been sneaking around with photographs longer than either of you. You pick up some tricks along the way.” 

Damian hums at that, craning his head back to catch Dick’s attention as he sprawls across the armrest. “And you?” 

Dick smiles sheepishly. “Only two. Had to bail out of the one on Twenty-Third and Chester; he came home early off patrol while I was trying to get the photo in the frame. Saw your photo from St Patrick's Day in the Bowery, though,” he adds, gesturing to Tim. 

Tim rolls his eyes, but looks pleased. “You’ve got to frame them before you hit up a safehouse,” he advises warmly. “Make it a hit and run mission.” 

“Duly noted,” Dick says, grinning, and sits forward to snag a photo of Jason pressed up to the lens, looking incredulous while Dick’s younger eighteen-year-old self beams at the camera and pulls him closer. “Can I have this one?” 

“Free game,” Tim replies, and Dick pockets it while Damian slides down to inspect the images closest to him. “Saw the one in Tricorner, by the way. Kudos for that shot. The lasagne was a nice touch too.” 

Dick looks to Damian, who has stilled in his kneel on the carpet to frown at Tim. “Not yours?” Dick asks, and Damian shakes his head slowly. 

“I thought that was yours,” Damian offers in return, glancing back up at Dick, and now Tim’s frowning too. “I thought it may have been a personal photograph, given how young Todd looked in the image.” 

“I thought it was yours too,” Tim interjects, his spread of photographs forgotten. “I definitely didn’t take that photograph.” 

Dick shakes his head, tossing his dark locks. “It’s not mine. I wasn’t even around when Jason was that young. I would’ve been in New York around then.” 

Tim hums in contemplation. “Where’d you put your second one?” 

“I’ve hit Chinatown and East Side so far,” Dick provides. 

“Then you’ve done three,” Tim corrects, and continues at Dick’s raised, dissenting brows, “The one in Newtown? The first one?” 

“Wasn’t me.” 

Tim looks at Damian. Damian looks at Tim. “I didn’t start this. I thought it would have been you, Drake.” 

“I’ve got lots of shots of Batman and Robin,” Tim concedes easily. “But none that close up. That’s a personal shot. There’s no way I could have taken that photo. That’s why I assumed it was yours.” 

Dick arches a brow, sitting forwards. “It’s not mine. So who else is in on our game?” 

“Who has photos of Jason?” Tim responds, and then adds after a moment, “Other than Jason.” 

Damian stiffens sharply, drawing Dick’s gaze. “You don’t think…” he begins hesitantly, searching their faces for confirmation. 

“I’ve never known Bruce to take a selfie,” Dick says. “But if he was the only other one in the photograph…” 

“What about the Tricorner one? With Alfred?” Tim cuts in, scowling. “ _Alfred_ can’t have hand-delivered that one to him, surely. And Bruce wouldn’t cut out valuable patrol time to- to-” 

A moment of stunned silence passes between them. 

“I only started after he threatened me,” Tim murmurs in a low whisper. 

“ _I_ only started once I saw the first few,” Dick confirms. 

Damian scoffs. “I started Wednesday, so it certainly wasn’t my doing.” 

“Holy shit, are we conspiring with Bruce?” Tim hisses. “Oh my God. Oh my _God_ , Jason’s going to be so _pissed_ when he finds out.” 

Dick’s gaze slices between them, hesitant and guarded. “We’re not stopping, are we?” 

“Absolutely not,” Damian says sharply, and begins extracting photos from the spread on the carpet. “I’m going to beat Drake’s score.” 

“Not a chance in hell,” Tim preens. “I’ve already got three prepped to drop on Sunday. I’m going for a trifecta.” 

“Boys, it’s not _quantity_ , it’s _quality_ ,” Dick purrs, and brandishes his ace-in-the-hole. A blurry shot of Jason with one arm hooked around the gargoyle that Dick’s sprawled back over in full Nightwing regalia, a mouthful of half-chewed chili dog in his open mouth as he waxes winsome in the soft gleam of the Gotham nightlights. There’s a small, private smile on Jason’s lips, the green heel of his pixie boot hooked in next to the gargoyle and a chili dog in his other hand. 

Tim snatches it out of his grasp, and then shoots Damian a glower when it’s reaped in turn. “Did Bruce take that photo?” he asks. 

“Yeah, first team patrol after I got back from New York,” Dick supplies with a fond smile. “Gonna hang it in the hallway in Newtown. Right next to Bruce’s first photo.” 

“Bold,” Damian says approvingly, and pauses thoughtfully. “He hung up Bruce’s photograph?” 

“Yeah,” Tim confirms, and starts gathering the evidence around them into a neat, concealable pile. “No clue what he’s done with the others. When are you hitting up Newton? I’ll leave my own in there too.” 

Damian nods decidedly. “Likewise.” 

“Hang on,” Dick says, raising a placating hand. “If we’re all planning a sting on Newtown, does someone want to see if Alfred wants in?” 

**Author's Note:**

> Look at those dumbasses. 
> 
> It was 100% Bruce's doing. Alfred just found the photo whilst clearing out some dusty old albums, and may have made an offhanded suggestion while he was in earshot. The rest of the Robins just couldn't resist the temptation.
> 
> Edit 6/29/19: As Kingsdaughter613 pointed out, the photo being left in mid-August would put it right around Jason's birthday (16th August). Which was not at all intentional, and sheer coincidence, but I will definitely accept the implication that Bruce was leaving him a birthday gift.


End file.
